What Makes a Man a Man
by NotMarge
Summary: Sean Cassidy is about to be put to the ultimate test. He will be required to make the ultimate sacrifice. The question is, what will he do with the time in between? Takes place between First Class and DoFP.
1. What Makes a Man a Man

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

* * *

He lay on a soft, slightly musty surface. A mattress maybe. Or a cot.

The air was cool and still. With a disconnected feel, smell.

Like when you stayed in the hospital.

It was quiet.

Muffled, faraway sounds distant and unimportant.

And that was all fine.

He could deal with that. Almost welcome it.

Except _he_ wasn't fine.

Everything about him hurt.

Everything.

When he moved, every muscle, every fiber, ached.

From the top of his unruly ginger hair to the tips of his bare toes.

His bare toes.

That didn't seem right.

But he didn't know why.

Then he opened his eyes.

 _Where are my clothes?_

Realized his Banshee clothes . . .

 _I'm dressed like a mental patient._

. . . were gone.

 _Or a labrat._

And understood.

Through the daggers of light stabbing into his brain, Sean Cassidy, aka Banshee, squinted blearily at his surroundings.

A six by ten space.

White, dingy walls. Bare row of fluorescent light overhead.

Toliet. Sink.

Thin, sway backed cot on which he lay.

And a door.

Which now opened.

To reveal two hefty, blank-faced soldiers.

Who wordlessly approached, took him firmly by the upper arms.

And escorted him from the room.

His head was still spinning as they marched him along the corridor.

Half-dragging him past other silent doors like his.

And into a big, laboratory-like room.

With tables and shelves lined with scientific equipment and accoutrements.

 _Has Hank finally gone mad scientist?_

Where they released him.

To stand wobble-legged.

Before a most unusual man.

Not Hank McCoy.

Unusual enough in his own way.

 _No offense, man._

But nothing like this.

Short, unnaturally so.

Dark, wavy hair. Absurd caterpillar mustache.

Neat brown suit. Polished shoes. Vest. Tie.

Just visible under a starched white lab coat.

"Hello, Mr. Cassidy," the little man greeted him mildly. "How are you feeling?"

Sean didn't, couldn't, reply. Only managed to stare numbly.

 _What the hell are_ you _, man?_

His host, quite unperturbed by Sean's lack of response, smiled cordially.

"My name is Bolivar Trask. I am a scientist. You have been captured and brought here because I am very interested in your kind."

Through the drilling pain in his head, Sean's ears weirdly zoned in on the curious nuances and inflections of the man's distinct voice as he spoke.

"By your kind, of course, I mean mutants," Trask continued, seeming to warm to his topic. "You are a fascinating new species with varying talents and abilities. Differing physical attributes and adaptive natures."

The man smiled again, open, honest.

"I must admit, I rather admire your kind. You are a most remarkable advancement in the human evolutionary path."

 _Did you kidnap me here to compliment me? Do I get a prize? A kewpie doll?_

In any other instance, the normally lighthearted Cassidy might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

But aside from the pain in his head, he was too busy.

Too busy being slowly sucked down.

Down into a quicksand of deepening disquiet.

Rising fear.

Paralyzing terror.

Well, not entirely paralyzing.

"I would very much appreciate your compliance and cooperation while you are here, Mr. Cassidy. It would be most beneficial to my research."

 _Bet you would, creepy creep._

Sean smirked.

Opened his mouth.

And shrieked.

Sending powerful sonic sound waves blasting through the air toward the little man.

Knocking him head over wing-tipped shoe.

Carefully quaffed hair flying. Glasses knocked askew.

Surprise painted all over his wide little face.

Sean's eyes narrowed into daggers as he focused all his energy.

And continued his assault, intending on powering all the way up if he had to.

Remembering the time he'd nearly made Charles and Moira throw up on the lawn of the mansion.

He'd almost passed out himself that day.

But it'd be worth it to make the little guy and all his minions suffer.

Maybe he could even escape.

He never even got the chance.

Immediately half a dozen soldiers in the room drew down on the mutant with guns that he could only hope were simply taser-locked.

One of the soldiers behind him smashed the butt of his rifle into Sean's skull, erupting eye-exploding pain there.

Dropping him in a heap to the concrete floor.

And stopping the viscious onslaught.

"No, stop!" The little man cried out, struggling to rise. "Don't hurt him!"

The soldiers complied, standing at the ready, guns leveled on the crumpled Sean, who struggled to his hands and knees, determined to stay conscious.

Bolivar Trask approached, readjusting his glasses, smoothing his clothing.

Speaking calmly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"He will be much less useful to my work if his mind is damaged."

He smiled again, most self-assuredly sane behind his large glasses.

"That is a very impressive and powerful ability you have, Mr. Cassidy. However, since I can't have you destroying my facility and injuring my employees . . ."

* * *

 **Hello! Yes, another X-Men fic, go figure.**

 **This ones gonna be focused on Banshee. Since DoFP just offed him and left with me with nothing, I got to make up my own.**

 **You know the outcome and so you also know this won't be a happy story or a happy ending. But since it is Sean, maybe we can find some levity as well.**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. Mutant Mutt

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

Mutant Mutt

* * *

Collared.

Like a freaking dog.

They'd held him down, four of them plus one to secure his mouth shut.

And clamped a freaking collar on him like some feral mutt.

But not just any collar.

An electroshock collar.

He'd found that out when they'd let him go.

He'd scuddled back from them. Gulped in a quick, deep breath. And blasted a sonic scream at them.

And immediately seized up, every nerve and muscle frying as lightening seared his nerve endings.

Collapsing once again to the floor as everything within him sizzled.

They'd waited til his body went limp.

And Bolivar Trask, that little suited imp, watched silently from behind those ridiculous glasses.

Nodded in grim, dispassionate satisfaction at the soldiers.

Who once again picked him up.

Dragged him back down the hall.

And dumped him back in his . . .

 _Kennel? Cage? Cell?_

. . . drab white square, pouring sweat and shaking.

He'd lain there, in between twitches and quakes, wondering what kind of fresh hell he'd gotten himself into this time.

And then little by little, shakily regained control of his traumatized body.

And went to work scrabbling at the metal ring around his neck.

Little good it had done.

Only served to exhaust his damaged body further.

Cause more pain.

Trying to prise off the damn unrelenting thing off his neck.

No release catch, no lock to pick. No nothing.

He'd pulled and yanked and torn at it til his hands and his throat were raw and bleeding.

Until his stomach roiled with the nausea and he'd been close to throwing up.

And finally used the last of his waning sanity to force himself to get control, be still.

Get as calm as possible.

He'd laid down on his cot and stared at the water stained ceiling above him.

Wondering how long it would be until he died.

Trying to figure out a way to keep that from happening.

And coming up with nothing.

Wondering in the time being what Trask was going to do with him in the meantime.

Without his powers, he was just a regular person.

And they were soldiers. With guns. And electroshock.

And God knew what else.

All commanded by a tiny little mad scientist.

"Hey."

A whisper came from nowhere, almost too quiet to be heard.

"Hey, you really shouldn't be going crazy in your cell like that."

He located it near his head, coming from . . . the wall?

"If you don't control yourself, they'll just tie you down and do whatever they want anyway."

He found it, a pin hole so small he might have never noticed it.

"Hello?" he whispered, bracing himself for the collar to zap him.

But it didn't.

"Hello?"

But he received no response.

Because from the other side of the wall, he heard the door open.

Soliders walk in.

And take the now mute owner of the voice away.

And they didn't come back for a very long time.

And Sean was left alone.

* * *

 **Thanks to DinahRay and brigid1318 for your support and reviews!**


	3. Come Here Often?

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

Come Here Often? (and Other Stupid Things Boys Say)

* * *

The person, girl he was pretty sure, was weeping quietly. Brokenly.

In that horrible way when someone has hurt you. Badly.

And nobody had been there to stop it.

"Hey," Sean whispered, much as she had before she'd been taken. "Hey, are you okay?"

She didn't answer.

But the crying stopped.

"Hey, it's okay," he insisted quietly, realizing how immeasurably foolish that sounded. "Hey, it's okay. It's over."

A strange sound. Like somebody laughing in their tears. Bitter laughter, bitter tears.

And then she finally did speak.

"It's not over. It's _never_ over. You're new here. You don't know that yet. It's never over 'til you're dead."

 _Huh. Comforting._

"Okay," he relented, blindly groping for a decent reply instead of just leaving her alone and abandoned to her pain. "It's over for now."

She didn't reply.

Maybe she couldn't.

"Are you hurt?"

 _Oh for god's sake, stop saying idiotic things, man!_

And he was proven right by another one of those hiccupping, bitter, tear choked laughs.

"Oh my god, are you an idiot?"

And Sean wanted to bang his head against the wall separating them.

"Yeah, well, everybody needs a hobby, I guess."

And then there came a sound he was not expecting to hear.

A laugh.

Not a big one. Not a long one.

But at least not a laugh full of tears and pain.

But a genuine, hey-that-guy-made-a-funny chuckle.

And a lopsided smile started to tug at the side of his freckled face.

Until the girlish laugh was followed by a groan.

"Oh, that hurts."

And his smile disappeared.

"I'm sorry."

Silence thickened the wall between them, broken only to Sean by the steady rush of blood through his veins.

"It's okay. Thank you. I haven't laughed in a long time."

And now he did smile. A little.

"You're welcome."

He waited a second, then went on.

"Who are you?"

He whispered carefully, feeling the godawful collar thing just wanting to zap him into a drooling, twitching, zombie mode.

He didn't think the voice would ever answer and panic started stroking his nerves.

 _Come on, don't leave me in this hell alone! I made you laugh! Kind of._

Then it spoke again, definitely real and definitely a female.

"Angela. I'm . . . Angela."

He almost sagged in relief to hear the voice again.

It reminded him of soothing water over a sunburn. Cooling his rage. Calming his fear.

"I'm Sean," he replied, pressing his head to the wall, unable to see anything but the narrowest of pinhole light through the hole.

"Nice to meet you," came the voice politely.

And he had a sudden vision of himself before the X-Men, sauntering up to pretty girls and laying his best lines on them.

 _Excuse me, I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I borrow yours?_

 _What does it feel like to be the most beautiful girl in this room?_

 _Hey, honey, I got money!_

What an idiot.

And now here he was, almost in tears just to hear another voice, any voice, that wasn't trying to fry his brains into jelly.

And he couldn't think of anything to say.

And found giggles erupting from his throat, making the dog collar begin a dangerous buzz.

"What are you laughing at?" the surreshing voice questioned, bewildered.

Sean shook his head, feeling the grains of the wall rubbing into his freckled forehead.

"Sorry. It's just . . . weird . . . meeting a beautiful girl . . . now."

The voice didn't reply for a while and he figured he'd screwed up again.

"Sorry. I just . . ."

His voice faded away and he closed his eyes, the throbbing in his head intensifying.

"How do you know I'm beautiful? Can you see through this wall?"

The voice didn't sound angry or sarcastic. Only . . . curious. And maybe a little relieved to be conversing with another one like itself.

"No," Sean replied, taking a deep breath. "But your voice. It sounds . . . nice. Kind. So you must be beautiful."

Again, the voice didn't reply for a while.

Sean waited. It didn't really seem like there was much else to do.

"Thank you."

He smiled at the wall.

"You're welcome."

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for keeping up those reviews!**

 **Thanks also to GladerTributeCamper for adding your support to this story. :)**

 **But watch out. Crap's about to get real!**


	4. Just High School Science

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

Just High School Science

* * *

"Now, Mr. Cassidy, I have a theory. Based off of your blue, shape-shifting, mutant friend."

 _Raven. Wait, how does he know about Raven?_

"You see, just like other living organisms, it is obvious that mutants are able to pass their mutant traits on to their offspring. Much like eye color or hemophilia."

Trask slowly circled the table onto which Sean was strapped, seeming to relish in his own lecture.

"Thanks to the efforts of Gregor Mendel, even high school students can practice proving genetic transference using the Punnett's Square model."

 _Oh god, he's going to kill me with high school science._

Trask paused, a fond expression softening his distinctive face.

"Punnett's Square, oh my. Well, everyone must start somewhere, don't they? When I was five, I myself crafted and utilized a Punnett's Square to identify the inheritable traits of my goldfish."

Trask's confident demeanor slipped and he looked somewhat abashed.

"The Punnett's Square was successful. The subsequent, uh, experiment was not."

 _Goldfish killer._

"Well, anyway," Trask continued quietly. "To quote Einstein, 'In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.'"

And he smiled.

"And now I would like to examine this current theory further."

The lights were too bright. The straps too tight.

Sean didn't know what was about to happen.

But he did know something. Something with absolute certainly.

He was going to die.

"I would like to transfer genetic material artificially from one mutant to another. See if a mutant can absorb, retain, and utilize abilities of which they were not born."

 _What?!_

Trask smiled self-consciously.

"That is, of course, the . . . end of game of my research."

He leaned closer.

"The first and foremost step is much simpler. A test subject must first _survive_ the procedure."

And back.

"It hasn't happened yet unfortunately," the tiny man admitted.

And placed a thick fingered, comforting hand upon Sean's shoulder.

"But I am . . . reasonably hopeful that you, Mr. Cassidy, can succeed now where others have failed."

* * *

The pain was excruciating. It sliced through his entire physical being.

Making every organ, every cell want to retract, squirm. Move away.

Escape itself.

But there was no escape.

Absolutely none at all.

And every movement only made it worse.

His body had changed.

It had evolved.

It had mutated.

Unnaturally so, thanks to Trask.

And whatever purple liquid had been inside the needle they had injected him with.

Sean's flesh, his tissues were cutting themselves.

Literally.

Inside and out.

And he could not stop it.

He could not escape.

Every muscle stretched taut, rigid. Unbelievably so.

Spasming, shredding.

Hands drawn into claws, mirrored nails scratching fruitlessly against impenetrable flesh.

His tortured chest hitched up and down, breath coming in wheezing little gasps as his mutated lungs razored themselves to ribbons with each and every intake of breath.

"Subject appears to be experiencing negative side effects of serum 247," a disembodied voice intoned somewhere outside of his own personal hell.

Sean tried to open his eyes, only find his vision blurred and filled with a red haze.

His own blood, he realized. His eyesockets, his eyeballs, were filling up with his own blood.

"Subject appears to be bleeding internally," the voice concluded before a clicking sound indicated a voice recorder had been shut off.

Though Sean did not register the sound, only his own agony.

"Sir! Do we let him bleed out?"

Quick approaching footsteps over the scratching sounds of his altered skin scraping against the shock collar secured around his neck.

"No, you idiot! He's lasted far longer than any of the others! Save him if at all possible!"

A second of pause, centuries for the suffering Sean.

"And have someone collect samples of his blood and tissues in the instance that he does expire. I will need them to further my research."

Then Sean Cassidy, lifeblood pooling in his chest and stomach cavity, passed out.

As he faded out of the world he had not asked to inhabit as a mutant, he caught only a few scattered words.

". . . failed . . . Frost serum . . . incompatible. . ."

 _Diamonds. They turned me into diamonds. I'ma freakin' Tiffany's and Co._

". . . attempting injection . . . healing factor X . . ."

And then he was gone.

* * *

He was almost glad to wake up in his cell.

 _Hey, I'm not dead._

Then it came to him.

 _Oh god, I'm not dead._

He blinked, well aware that every part of his body felt like he had shaved with a dull straight razor.

"Hey, you okay?"

He tried to shift upright, only moan and go limp again.

Too much. It hurt too much to move.

Even holding his eyes open hurt too much. It made him move his eyeballs.

And they were sore too.

He closed them.

That hurt too.

"No. Not really."

She was silent for a second.

"What did they do to you?"

Unbidden tears coursed their way down his face, adding to the ache, his tenderized tear ducts.

"I, uh, think they tried to make my skin into diamond."

A prolonged silence.

"They made you shiny and overpriced?"

Despite the pain, a muscle twitched near his mouth.

The muscle that used to make it so easy to smile.

No more.

"Uh, no. It made my skin cut itself."

She fell silent.

Until he finally spoke again.

Even though it caused him to bleed into his throat.

"I'm . . . better now. It . . . failed . . . I think."

She was quiet so long he thought he had passed out again.

Or he was crazy and she was never really there at all.

Then she spoke, her muffled voice cracked and hurt.

"Oh, Sean. I'm so sorry."

 _Yeah, me too._

Then he did pass out again.

It was a mercy.

* * *

 **Eesh! Everybody okay? Hope so.**

 **Okay, well, he survived the *first* experiment. Yes, I said first.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, brigid1318, and GladerTributeCamper for your reviews!**

 **Thanks also to PocketRamblr for adding your support to this tale.**


	5. Dirty Revelations

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

Dirty Revelations

* * *

" . . . detention for three days!"

A feminine chuckle from the other side of the wall.

"Yeah, I would imagine shattering all the beakers in the science lab would do it. Did they ever figure out _how_ you did it?"

Sean grinned.

He lay on his bunk with his eyes closed since there was nothing worth seeing in his little saltine box of a cell anyway.

Plus, with his eyes closed, he could hone in easier on her voice.

It seemed more melodic, more musical with every conversation they had.

"I mean, surely they didn't just put a mutant in detention like a bunch of numbskulls, would they?"

Or maybe the isolation was getting to him.

"Naw, they thought I had a slingshot I was hiding or something."

Another feminine giggle.

"Where? Up your nose . . ."

He joined her.

". . . with a rubber hose!"

Their voices, all they had to bond them in this hellhole, intermingled with quiet laughter.

The dogcollar affixed to his neck buzzed dangerously and he let his mirth die away.

"What does that even mean?" her voice came again.

Sean shook his blind head at the water-stained ceiling.

"I have no idea."

The silence sat between them for a few minutes.

Sean didn't like the quiet. It allowed him to imagine sounds in other parts of the compound he didn't want to.

"So what's your ability?" he asked her. "Why are you here?"

The girl on the other side of the wall, the one who had spoken to him first, didn't reply.

He waited. Then grew anxious.

It was silly. Getting freaked over conversational pauses.

Then again, a place like this would make anyone anxious.

Especially given what had already been done to him.

And the uncertainty of what was to come.

"Angela? Are you ok? Are you there?"

He could almost hear her shift uncomfortably.

"Yeah. I'm ok."

And that was it.

 _Maybe she didn't hear me. That's her mutant ability. Selective, intermittent deafness._

"Angela?" he spoke a little louder, setting the collar dangerously buzzing again. "What's your power?"

She still didn't answer. And he wondered if he had asked the wrong question.

But how could that be the wrong question in here?

Then she sighed.

Quiet and sad, as if resigned to something.

And he wanted to reach through the wall and comfort her.

Pat her back. Put his arm around her.

Whatever people without walls between them did to make each other feel better.

Then she spoke.

"I . . . I . . . I can sense other mutants."

The words didn't really process right away.

"Oh, that's, uh, cool."

She sighed again. And when she spoke, he finally understood.

And it was horrible.

"No, Sean. I can tell where other mutants _are_. Trask uses me to find them and bring them here."

His eyes flew open. He sat up rigid. Staring at the wall where the pinhole was. His brain stuttering.

"You're . . . _working_ for him?"

She answered listlessly, as if she knew it was their last conversation.

"No. But I'm the reason you're here."

And the loquacious Sean Cassidy was suddenly struck dumb. And did not know what to say.

"Sean? Sean? I'm sorry, Sean."

* * *

There was no sense of time in his windowless prison.

He didn't know how long he didn't speak to her.

Long enough that when he did finally speak, he didn't know what he even could say.

 _I got tortured because of you?_

 _I'm gonna die because of you?_

 _I'll never see the sun again because of you?_

"How does it work? Are there colors or pushpins in a roadmap or a Jeopardy button or something?"

He thought he meant for it to come out funny. But it only sounded bitter and resentful.

She sighed.

Again.

And lighthearted Sean Cassidy felt a rumble of frustration.

 _Please stop doing that. It's getting on my nerves._

"No, I . . . look, I can't explain it. I just know. Like when you know if a bee is gonna sting you or just inspecting your ear because it's bored. You know?"

 _Bees. Out there. In the world. Nope, now you're just talking stupid._

"No. I just always get stung."

She seemed to accept his hate as if she deserved it. Which made him feel even worse.

"I try not to tell him," her voice was defeated. "But he's . . . he's . . . he's got these electrodes . . . and . . . and . . . when I don't talk . . ."

Her voice dissolved into quiet, horrible tears.

And Sean's resolve to hate her collapsed.

 _Okay, okay, I take it back, I take it back. Sigh all you want. Just stop crying. Please._

"I'm sorry, Angela. Please . . . please stop crying. I . . . it's . . . it's going to be okay."

But it wasn't going to be okay.

Not ever again.

And they both knew it.

* * *

 **Thanks to K.J. Bollinger, GladerTributeCamper, PocketRamblr, and brigid1318 for your previous reviews!**


	6. Mutant Red Hots

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

Mutant Red Hots

* * *

The dwarf mad scientist ran a light hand over Sean's arm, tsking in mild disappointment.

"A truly unfortunate turn of events, Mr. Cassidy. I am sincerely apologetic for the, uh, alteration to your physical appearance."

Sean's arm. That previously pale, freckled flesh with its light covering of reddish hair.

Now criss-crossed with slightly raised, razor-thin white lines.

Healed gashes of the trauma he had endured at the hands of Bolivar Trask's diamond skin experiment.

They covered his entire body.

The so called X-factor healing agent being only moderately successful.

Having healed his internal organs just enough to let him survive before petering out.

As it also was abnormal and alien to his body.

And the diamond mutation effect faded.

Leaving him scarred. And alive.

Barely.

"I would not have preferred the scarring, Mr. Cassidy. Please understand that."

 _Yeah, we're buds._

"However, the experiment was in and of itself, quite successful in some ways."

 _No, not really, no._

"While it did, in the end, fail, it also proved that a mutant's white blood cells will fight what they perceive to be an infection, an interloper. Like a transplant patient's body rejecting a kidney. . ."

 _Really? Is that what happened to your dick?_

". . . or a child recovering from a cold."

 _Well, not exactly._

Trask smiled somewhat sheepishly.

"Well, not exactly."

 _Oh boy, do I have psychic powers now? Explode and die._

Trask did not.

 _Dammit._

But brightening, he continued on.

"It also proved that your body is resilient enough to survive such a, uh, taxing experience . . ."

 _Yay-_

". . . which means we are free to continue to our research."

 _Oh god._

Trask appeared moderately positive and satisfied.

"You see, Mr. Cassidy, while this experiment ultimately did fail to permanently transfer another mutant's abilities to you . . ."

 _What was your first clue?_

"I believe it is not as black and white as that. I believe we simply have to hit on, so to speak, a compatible ability. I believe though your body could not absorb and retain the ability to turn one's skin into a diamond-like substance and back, it is still possible, even probable, that there is an ability out there that your body could integrate successfully into your system."

 _Yeah, the ability to kick your ass._

"And it is with that hypothesis, Mr. Cassidy, that I would like to continue our research and experimentation."

 _Grand._

"I have isolated a certain mutant DNA marker that I find particularly fascinating."

 _Fantastic. Do tell._

"It will allow you certain . . . offensive capabilities."

 _Well, that's just dand-_

"That will be regulated against insurgence here of course."

 _Damn._

"There may be some, uh, negative side effects."

 _Oh goody. Lucky me._

"But that, as we have already learned, comes with the territory, doesn't it?"

 _Doesn't it, though?_

"Shall we begin, Mr. Cassidy?"

 _Naw, I'm good._

"Begin procedure 602, please."

 _Damn._

* * *

The blisters were excruciating.

The burns.

On the inside of his mouth.

Lining his gums, his tongue, his soft tissues.

The fire seared its way down his throat when he swallowed.

Blackened his teeth and burned his lips when he spit.

Spit out those tiny balls of fire.

Balls of fire like Angel had done.

Angel.

She was here.

She must be.

Otherwise how could Trask have gotten the mutant DNA?

So she was here.

Or had been.

He shivered, convulsed. Even more so than before.

Because she could be here.

Or she could be dead.

Experimented on. Mutilated like him.

By Trask.

Until she died.

Like he would.

If this continued much longer.

Sean Cassidy raised his head as his body spasmed against the chair he was strapped to and gazed at the tiny scientist calmly observing him.

His eyes narrowed into slits of hate.

"Where's Angel?" he growled, dangerously close to activating his shock collar.

Bolivar Trask's broad forehead furrowed in confusion.

"Pardon, who?"

Sean ground his teeth together against the pain.

"Angel. The . . . girl . . . with the . . . wings."

Forming every word was an exercise in agony.

Trask studied him for a long moment.

Then he smiled disarmingly before returning to jotting his notes.

"She is not here, Mr. Cassidy."

Sean shook his head, spitting yet another miniature fireball from his mouth.

It plopped to the floor, leaving a charred mark on the concrete.

"Bullshit! She . . . was . . . here. This is her . . . power."

Blood would have poured from his fire-scorched mouth.

Had the heat not burned so hot it instantly cauterized his tortured flesh on contact.

Trask's hypnotic green eyes remained calm behind his overlarge glasses.

He repeated himself, adding one deadly conclusive word.

"She is not here _now_."

Sean's eyes closed. His head lowered.

He tried not to crumple under the horrible truth of that statement.

And heard Trask's voice, sounding for all the world benevolent and magnanimous.

"I believe that's enough for now, Mr. Cassidy. I have the information I need. Gentlemen, may we get a glass of water for our friend here, please?"

It only served to exacerbate the pain.

As if that were possible.

* * *

"Hey. Hey, are you there?"

He couldn't answer her.

Not for the pain.

Not for the fireballs for they had stopped forming about an hour ago.

Not that it helped his mouth any.

But for her.

What could he say to her?

 _She died._

 _I will too._

 _And you._

 _We're all going to die here._

 _And eventually we'll be glad about it._

 _I'm sorry. I can't stop it._

Only his labored breathing belied his presence.

"I've been thinking," the quiet, soothing voice on the other side of the world whispered. "About where we should go once we're out of here."

 _Nowhere. We're going nowhere._

 _We're going to die._

 _Haven't you been paying attention?_

"Argentina."

 _Is that a place?_

"It's in South America. It's lush and green and you can get lost in the sunset. I saw it in a book one time my grandma gave me."

 _Keep talking. Tell me more._

"It's got summer and winter because it's down at the very end of the world nearest to Antarctica and the Southern Ocean. And the seasons are opposite from ours so Christmas is warm and July is cold!"

Angela kept talking. Rambling on quietly about some mystical faraway land Sean had never seen.

Would never see.

He let her, listening to the sound of her quiet, calming voice.

It didn't take away his pain or fear.

It didn't even diminish them a little bit.

But it did give him something to listen to, focus on.

At least until he fell into an uneasy sleep.

To the dreams of a place where Trask and his science of torture and death were not.

* * *

 **Did I ruin Red Hots for you? My bad :(**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, J.K. Bollinger, and GladerTributeCamper for your reviews.**


	7. Out of Nowhere

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

Out of Nowhere

* * *

He was lying on his bunk, hovering somewhere between conscious hell and almost restful slumber when he heard it.

Her voice.

"Sean, you ready?"

He opened his eyes.

She sounded different.

Strong. Determined. Anticipatory.

And he just felt lost and slow.

"Ready for what?"

No reply.

He was thinking about sitting up, think about whether it was even worth a try.

When he heard something different.

Outside the cells.

In the hall.

"Hey, what are you doing? Get back in the-"

Thunk.

"Watch out, she's got a-"

Thunk.

He did sit up then, barely registering the residual aches and pains to which his body had become almost accustomed to.

Then his door clicked open.

And in stepped not a gun-toting soldier or a tiny mad scientist.

But a girl.

Thin. Pale.

Garbed in white like him.

Barefoot like him.

Red hair like him.

Green eyes, red-rimmed and grim.

And she beckoned.

"Come on, get up!"

He knew that voice.

Angela.

And he got up.

"What're you- How'd you – Where'd you-"

She raised a finger to her lips.

"Shhh!"

She was shorter than him when he reached her.

Rose no higher than his chin.

Close up, her hair was flat and greasy.

Her body odor similar to his.

He didn't care.

He grinned.

"Wow! You really are beauti-"

And she reached up and jammed something into his neck.

Well, the collar.

"Ow!"

He jerked, expecting a jolt.

Or some kind of pain.

She twisted the slender rod in her hand.

The collar clicked open and she snatched it, flinging it off into the room behind him where it clattered against the far wall.

Sean Cassidy opened his mouth.

"I love you."

And spoke the dumbest words yet to her.

She grinned fleetingly then turned.

"Follow me."

And snuck down the brightly lit corridor.

Sean, completely astounded, followed.

Halfway down, a guard stepped into view and raised his weapon to fire at them.

"Duck!" Sean snapped.

His co-conspirator hit the floor as his sonic scream went barreling over her head.

Knocking the guard back, his gun flying from his hand.

Angela clambered to her feet and dodged off down another corridor.

Running through a door marked "Exit".

And out into the dark night, quiet rent asunder by the alarm wailing behind them.

Ran, they ran.

Blinded by sudden floodlights.

Deafened by scattered gunfire and barking dogs and shouting voices.

Heart pounding against his chest, muscles burning after so long ill-used.

She shimmied under a fence and he followed, cutting his leg badly.

But not badly enough to stop.

Ran, they ran.

Into the woods.

Where the snakes and wolves and spiders and other night things waited.

None of them quite so terrifying as what they had left behind.

Ran. They ran and ran and ran.

Their hearts should have burst with effort.

Their muscles seized and collapsed.

Their feet slammed down into gopher holes, snapping bones or tearing tendons.

Their faces smacked into trees, rendering them unconscious.

Yet none of these things happened.

Luck, it seemed, had finally favored them.

Over the demons who pursued them. Who slowly fell behind.

Until they were all alone, plunging through the dark night.

"Angela," Sean panted. "Where. . . are. . . we . . . going?"

She might have thrown a gasp of incredulity behind her at him.

"I don't know! I didn't think we'd make it this far!"

And it was then, in the gloom, they stumbled upon it.

The mansion. The palace.

The heavenly abode amid the dark night.

The one room cabin.

Dark. Quiet.

Abandoned.

And unlocked.

* * *

 **Didn't expect this, didja? Confused are ya?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for your reviews.**

 **And I'll see you all again tomorrow, I think. 'Cause I've got the next chapter all lined up.**


	8. In the Quiet Hours

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

In the Quiet Hours

* * *

Sean found himself not quite brave enough to turn on the lights.

Not before Angela pulled the curtains tight.

And even then, he flinched reflexively when she clicked the light on over the stove.

They searched the tiny abode together, steeling themselves against whatever might jump out at them at any moment.

Trying to breathe easier when nothing did.

And forgot all that (mostly) when she pulled a treasure out of the pantry.

A half empty jar of Jif.

"Oh sweet! Peanut butter!"

A plastic-wrapped bundle of saltine crackers.

"Found the picnic knives!"

And a jug of flat RC cola.

"Yes!"

Never really one for decorum, Sean nevertheless managed to restrain himself and allow her first dibs on the food.

"Oh my god, it's so _good_!"

Even though he was practically salivating at the sight of her wolfing down the first bites of their sumptuous feast.

They dined in the silence of the truly hungrily free.

Except for a small incident when she let out a hearty burp.

Which she seemed to feel no shame in letting rip.

Prompting an explosion of barely closed mouth cackles from him.

Evolving rather quickly into a crumb-filled coughing fit.

Where she pounded him on the back as he bent over the counter still caught in hysterics.

It really would have been prudent for them to have keep back some of the food as rations. Since Trask's facility had not starved them but provided sustenance on a regular basis.

But giddy as they were with freedom, they left nary a crumb for the Christmas mice in the Suess tale of yore.

Finally Angela scrunched up her nose in a way Sean found completely adorable.

And spoke.

"Oh my gosh, I stink. I'm gonna see if the shower works."

It did and she reappeared a scant ten minutes later gliding as if she were returned from a week's spa vacation.

"Your turn. There's even a tube of toothpaste in there. I used my finger."

The shower smelled of soap and shampoo and moisture and Sean nearly cried at the normalcy of it all.

Instead he lathered up and rinsed, and finger-brushed his teeth, reappearing in the small living room in the overlarge clothing she had left outside the door for him.

She was not there and he called her name in a quiet panic.

"I'm here."

She was curled up in the bed in the next room, awash in her own set of too-big clothes.

Damp hair fanned out on the relatively fresh pillow.

He almost hugged her.

"Sorry. I got sleepy."

He shrugged, immensely relieved.

"Yeah, me too. I'm gonna lay down on the couch."

Her hand floated out to him from the gloom.

"No, please, Sean. Don't leave me alone. Please. It makes me nervous. Please stay."

He hesitated, feeling uncomfortable.

Every guy hopes a girl will invite him into her bed.

But what to do when the girl is a vulnerable mutant escapee from a scientific testing facility?

And what to do when you inexplicably love that girl due to desperate situations and constant threat of death twisting your sensibilities?

And what to do when she looks that pretty and lonely laying there?

He got into the bed with her.

Careful not to touch her too much.

Or let her touch him.

She seemed okay with it.

Seemed to just want his presence there.

And little by little, they fell asleep.

* * *

He awoke sometime in the wee hours of the morning.

In the semi-darkness.

To a girl wrapped up in his arms.

Running her fingers lightly over his chest, his arms, his face.

"Wha- Angela, wha-"

Her fingertips traced his lips.

"Shhh."

And following those fingertips, she kissed him.

Lightly, gently.

Searchingly.

He drew back. Uncertain. Confused. And still a little drowsy.

Well, some of him.

"Angela, what are you doing?"

She kissed him again.

"Shhh, it's okay."

She wasn't being the hot siren of every teenage boy's hormonally charged sex dreams.

She wasn't being the X-rated film vixen of the forbidden film genre.

She was being a girl. A scared, lonely, vulnerable girl.

Who had been alone too long and who had inexplicably fallen in love with a boy she couldn't see.

Only hear through a pinhole in wall.

He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to take advantage of her. He didn't want her to do anything she'd regret later.

And for all his bluff and bluster, freckle-faced, red-haired Sean Cassidy, wasn't a thriving ladies man.

But he was a man.

Well, almost.

And slowly, as she continued to kiss him and tentatively run her hands along his prickling flesh, he succumbed.

She pulled off his clothes and helped him with her own, tossing them off into the darkness.

And there, underneath a musty smelling, homemade patchwork quilt, she pulled him down to her.

And took his breath away.

He tried to be gentle. Kind. He tried to make her feel loved and safe.

He tried to make her feel good.

Like he felt.

When it was over, they were quiet and still beneath the sheets.

Wrapped up in each other and their own thoughts.

"Sean?"

"Yeah?"

"I was thinking-"

And then the room flooded with light and sound and voice and movement.

And he couldn't find her anymore.

Couldn't see her.

Couldn't feel her.

Couldn't smell her fresh, clean scent.

Confused and overwhelmed, Sean Cassidy struggled to open his eyes against the blinding light.

And again heard a voice.

Not hers.

But familiar.

One he wished he did not know.

"Hello, Mr. Cassidy. How are you feeling?"

 _What the hell?_

* * *

 **Well, that went right off the rails, didn't it?**

 **Stayed tuned soon for a bit more explanation. If you can handle it.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, GladerTributeCamper, and K.J. Bollinger for your reviews.**


	9. Lo-Jacked

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a red-haired baby!

What Makes a Man a Man

Lo-Jacked

* * *

Sean stared at the little, suited, bespectacled monster before him.

Trying in desperation to understand the reality materializing around him.

Slowly, it came to him.

He remembered being strapped down on the table. An oxygen mask thing over his face.

Trying not to breathe as always.

And failing as always.

Getting sleepy, finally closing his eyes after what seemed like eons.

And now here. Awake. Confused.

He felt strangely depleted as well. But couldn't quite understand why.

Nothing made sense.

"It . . . it was . . . it was all a _dream_?"

He stuttered the words aloud, forgetting to not allow Trask any more understanding of him than he would gather from all his mad scientist equipment.

The little man's eyes gleamed with scientific inquiry at the mumblings.

"You dreamt? How fascinating."

And lifted his clipboard, poising ink-tipped pen above paper, interest peaked.

"Please tell me what you dreamed, Mr. Cassidy. If you don't mind."

Everything rushed through Sean's mind in an instant, flooding him with all the thoughts and feelings of a dream that at the time could not have been more vivid.

He clenched his jaw, cheeks flushing red, eyes averted as he lay strapped still to the laboratory table.

After a moment of waiting, Trask's blue eyes flickered slightly with understanding and he lowered the clipboard.

"Ah. Well, that makes a certain amount of sense for the mind to contrive particular scenarios. Considering the procedure involved."

He turned away as if to allow Sean to collect his dignity.

As if he had any left at all after all this.

Nodding at the surrounding assistants, who moved about their business of clearing away instruments and scientific equipment.

Then Trask turned and stepped forward again.

Calm and collected as ever.

Moving forward into the future.

"Another hypothesis of mine, Mr. Cassidy. I wanted to study the effects of mutant DNA combination directly from conception to birth to ability presentation and onward."

Sean stared at him blankly, his mind still feeling addled and fumbling along to keep up.

"Mutants, I have found, are notoriously uncooperative in this particular manner."

He paused then smiled again.

"Understandable of course, I suppose. But science calls."

And suddenly it hit Sean like a brick to the face. He blanched, all color draining from his face.

 _They . . . they . . . low-jacked my boys?!_

If he had wanted to sonic his waves at Trask he couldn't have.

He couldn't make any sound at all.

At this man, this monster, standing before him.

 _Reassuring_ him no less.

"Oh no worries, Mr. Cassidy, you were not defiled. There's a special device used with cattle specimen extraction and insemination. I simply adapted it for humans. It was all very mechanical and sterile, I assure you, nothing inappropriate at all."

Aghast, Sean simply stared at him until the insane little scientist continued.

"You see, aside from wanting to study mutant abilities and DNA, I also have an interest in how those mutant abilities manifest when mixed together. The uh, dominant gene, as you may have heard it described."

Trask paused, lovingly fingered a microscope.

"And I since I would never go so far as the Auschwitz doctors in forcing my subjects to copulate for the sake of my research . . ."

He shuddered in disgust at the barbary of the mad Nazi scientists.

". . . I have developed this method. Much more, uh, refined and dignified, you might say."

Sean still couldn't blink. Or breathe. Or think.

"The young lady, of course, is quite unharmed as well. Though I dare say she will be a bit shocked at her, shall we say, 'biblical' pregnancy when she learns of it."

And Sean finally had his only coherent thought since awakening.

 _Oh no. Oh god, no. Angela._

 _She's going to hate me._

* * *

 **Okay, well?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and GladerTributeCamper for your reviews.**


	10. Broken Silences

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I am not pregnant anymore. So far. ;)

What Makes a Man a Man

Broken Silences

* * *

It was quiet on the other side of the blank pinhole wall.

"Angela?"

The quiet that involved crying.

"Angela?"

Lots of crying.

"Angela, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Crying without a sound.

"Angela, please."

The quiet that involved a helpless girl.

"Please forgive me."

And a guy helpless to help a girl.

"Angela?"

Or console above a hoarse whisper.

"Angela, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – I would never -"

"Sean. Stop talking. Just stop talking. I know you didn't do anything. I know it's not your fault. But just stop talking for a while. I can't – I can't listen to you."

"Okay. I – I – Okay."

* * *

He stayed quiet as long as he could.

He stayed quiet through her silent crying.

He stayed quiet through her exhaustive nightmares when she wept and cried out in her sleep.

He stayed quiet through her sojourns out of the tiny cell and back.

He didn't want to.

He didn't like it.

He hated it.

It was very lonely.

It was very scary.

But she had asked to him to shut up. To stop talking.

To, essentially, go away back to his side of the wall and disappear.

Because she couldn't stand the idea of him anymore.

After what he, by way of Trask, had done to her.

So he tried.

He tried to be quiet.

Sean Cassidy had never been so quiet.

And the girl.

The faceless girl he had grown to love, or at the very least, care for, was quiet as well.

* * *

Until she wasn't.

It started early in the morning.

Well, that was just a guess. The lights were always on.

And it had been forever since he had seen the outside world or even a glimpse of it.

So it could have been noon.

Or 3 pm.

Or breakfast time.

But for some reason, it just _felt_ like early morning.

When he heard a noise he immediately recognized.

The sound of someone being sick.

Sean had been part of a family once.

Parents, brother, sister. Grandma.

And when one family member ran to the bathroom and you heard the gagging and the splashing of someone vomiting into the toilet.

You just knew.

You knew you were going to be sick too.

Eventually.

So when Angela started retching and he heard the splashing, he knew immediately what it was.

And he felt really bad for her.

Because it wasn't anything as simple as a stomach virus or food poisoning.

Angela was experiencing morning sickness.

Because she was pregnant.

With his baby.

Even though he'd never even seen or come into any kind of contact with her at all.

And after several minutes of uncontrollable retching, breathless shuddering, stifled weeping on her part, Sean Cassidy crumbled and broke his promise.

"Hey . . . it's . . . it's gonna be okay. Just, uh, just breathe. Take a . . . take a deep breath. And, uh, try to breathe through your nose . . . and out your mouth."

The retching and splashing ceased, only her gasping surreshing through the pinhole.

"It'll, uh, pass easier. If you don't fight it. And just get rid of it."

And then with a moan, the pained noises resumed.

He pressed his head against the wall, eyes squeezed shut.

The wall he couldn't get past.

The wall that separated him.

From her.

And the baby.

The baby.

There was going to be a baby.

His baby.

In this hellhole.

At the mercy of Bolivar Trask.

 _Oh god._

"Angela . . . just breathe, okay?"

Finally, the retching and splashing and sobbing ceased.

The toilet flushed.

And he thought he heard her move closer.

"Angela? Are you okay? Are you better?"

But she didn't respond. Only became silent and still again.

He thought he could hear her breathing.

But he couldn't be for sure.

* * *

"Sean?"

Her whisper wafted out so quietly he almost missed it.

He had been dozing, drifting in and out the threshold of sleep.

But at the sound of her voice, he jerked awake.

Sat up.

And aligned himself with the pinhole.

Not only head but hands also pressed against wall in intense focus.

"Yeah? I'm here."

Nothing for a moment.

And he was afraid she had changed her mind and decided not to talk to him after all.

 _Please please come back!_

"Talk to me. Talk to me about something good."

Her only request. And he found himself at a loss.

 _Good, good. Is there anything good left anymore?_

"Well, uh . . ."

"Anything, Sean. Anything at all."

"Well, uh . . ."

"Even if you have to make it up."

He thought a moment and summoned up by the fragmented remnants of an old Sean Cassidy smile.

"Oh, uh, well then . . . there once was an old man from Nantucket . . ."

"Sean!"

"Sorry. I –"

An exhalation of breath that might, with a lot of hard work, resemble a chuckle. Or a giggle. Maybe in due time, a laugh.

"No, no. Go on."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Okay . . ."

* * *

 **Hello again! No, I didn't comatose out on tryptophan. Well, not a lot. *winks***

 **Thanks to K.J. Bollinger, GladerTributeCamper, and brigid1318 for your pre-Thanksgiving guys are a tough bunch!**


	11. Through the Wall

I do not own Me Before You.

Still not pregnant, whee! Trust me, there's a story.

What Makes a Man a Man

Through the Wall

* * *

Time went on much as it had before.

A routine of waking, sleeping, eating the bland, tasteless foods provided them on metal trays.

Bolivar Trask was still searching for the proper mesh of mutant abilities.

And experimenting on Sean to figure them out.

His body was slowly beginning to break down.

He had lost vision in his left eye.

Several toes on his right foot were numb and discolored.

And his hands cramped up now without warning. Clenching up into crow's claws, the veins and tendons standing out in painful relief.

But for all the pain and fear and anxiety he suffered at the hands of science and advancement, Sean shoved them aside as much as possible.

And focused in.

On the pinhole.

And her.

Angela.

The faceless girl on the other side of the blank wall.

The one carrying his baby.

The baby neither of them had asked for or actively attempted to create.

But that was slowly coming into being nevertheless.

It had only been a few weeks.

But to Sean it had been a lifetime.

And the focus of their conversations had turned.

To outright lies and fantasies.

"When we get out of here, we'll find a cabin next to a lake."

"I'm not having sex with you, Sean."

He fleeted a wan smile.

"No, no. A place where you can sit out on the porch and watch the sun rise over the water in the morning."

"That sounds nice."

"Yeah."

"What about an apartment?"

"On a lake?"

"No, stupid. In the middle of a city. People all around, all the time. All you have to do is shout and they'll come a-running."

"Yeah. Is there a park?"

"Huge park. Massive."

"And an arcade?"

"Yeah."

"A movie theater?"

"Yeah."

"Pizza delivery?"

"Sean, it's a city. I'm pretty sure cities have all those things."

"Cool."

* * *

As much as he tried to keep it light and easy, sometimes he couldn't help himself.

"Angela?"

"Yeah?"

"What does he do to you? Trask? What does he do when they take you to him?"

They took her on a regular basis. Sean thought it might be daily.

Her voice came back, calm and casual.

Reassuring.

"Nothing much. Mostly check-ups. Vital signs, weight. Blood tests. Questions about how I feel. He doesn't do much else. I think he's afraid of hurting the development of the baby. He doesn't even try to make me find other mutants anymore. I think he thinks it'll stress me out too much and I'll miscarry or something."

She paused, huffing out her breath through her nose in derision.

"They're even giving me a little bit of extra food at meals. So I'll grow a big healthy mutant baby for them, I guess."

He closed his eyes in relief, quietly releasing pent-up breath.

Hoping she was telling the truth.

"Is it . . . is it . . ."

He rubbed the pulsating blisters on his palms, his latest souvenir from the Bolivar Trask Mutant Experimentation Rodeo of Hell.

" . . . do you think it's okay?"

"What?"

"The baby."

"Oh. Uh, I guess. I'm not sure."

"What do you mean?"

She was quiet for a minute,

"Well, it's kind of small right now, I think. I don't feel it. I don't even know it's there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Unless I get sick or my boobs start aching and swelling up, it's not really a big deal at the moment."

Boobs. Boobs.

He tried to think of boobs.

Found he couldn't.

And realized he missed the concept. It was something he used to like very much.

"So, you don't think about it much? The baby?"

"Sean?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be a dumbass."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

She suddenly sounded weary. Tired. Exhausted. Used up.

He knew the feeling.

"Of course I think about it. I think about it all the time. It's the _only_ thing I think about."

A blister popped. Viscious fluid swelled out of the opening.

And began trailing down his skin.

He watched it morosely.

"If we were on the outside . . . if this was different . . . what would you do with it?"

She didn't answer right away.

Sean waited. He had gotten better at it.

"I'm not sure. I can't even imagine the outside much anymore."

He could commiserate.

"Yeah."

They sat together for a while, on their respective sides of the wall.

"Sean?"

"Yeah?"

"Growing this kid's making me tired. I think I'll go to sleep now."

"Okay."

And he went back to being quiet.

Watchful and quiet.

* * *

 **Hats off to the tough K.J. Bollinger, DinahRay, and brigid1318, and GladerTributeCamper for managing these last few rough chapters. :)**


	12. Run

I do not own X-Men anything.

Welcome to my nightmare.

What Makes a Man a Man

Run

* * *

Barely keeping his feet under him, Sean Cassidy stumbled out of Trask's laboratory.

The downed little man's adamant voice echoing behind him.

"Bring him back! Don't hurt the child!"

He clutched the wailing infant to his heaving chest, lungs burning.

He squinted his eyes at the glare; the overhead fluorescent lights in the corridor were blinding.

He didn't know what Trask had done to him this time, couldn't remember at the moment.

But he had somehow broken free.

Grabbed the living, breathing form of his infant son.

And proceeded to get the hell out of there.

They were going. They were escaping.

Now.

He had promised Angela before the baby had arrived, before she had hemorrhaged out and died, that he would find a way to escape.

And save the child.

He had failed to save Angela.

But he was going to, by God, keep this promise.

To his son.

A soldier stepped out at the end of the hall, pointed a loaded Uzi at them.

Sean immediately lunged sideways into the adjacent corridor and kept running.

Cursing that little monster Trask all the way.

Bastard had cut out his vocal cords weeks before, rendering him mute.

And sonic-less.

Probably transplanted them into the esophagus of his pet gerbil or something.

Sean Cassidy had no powers, no abilities.

No nothing.

A red-haired, freckle-faced, scarred-up mutant. Without a mutation.

Shouting behind him.

They were getting closer.

He shouldered his way through the door at the end of the hallway.

And skidded to a halt in the laboratory.

Bolivar Trask's smooth, reasonable baritone floated out to him, though he saw no sign of the scientist.

"Please stop running, Mr. Cassidy. Your capture is inevitable."

 _Like hell!_

Sean took off running in a different direction, toward a different door.

The baby, afraid and being jostled, flailed against him. He clutched him tighter.

"I've got you, I've got you," he whispered to his son as he ran. "I won't let them have you. I won't let you go."

He burst out of the laboratory, into an identical white-walled corridor.

And kept running.

Ducking down a left hand corridor this time when a soldier fired wildly at him.

Saw an exit sign above the spring release double doors.

And ran . . .

Into the laboratory again.

Bolivar Trask, like an invisible apparition from the beyond, called out to him.

"Please, Mr. Cassidy. Stop this futile attempt. Give us the child. He will not be harmed."

Sean ignored him . . .

 _Maze, maze, whole damn place is a maze._

. . . and kept moving.

Running in yet another direction.

Out the door.

Down the corridor.

Dodging the machine gun-toting soldier.

Heading toward the marked exit.

Only to arrive once more, panting and wheezing, in the laboratory.

To Trask's voice.

"Mr. Cassidy, this is pointless. You're not going anywhere."

And his lumpy little body a shadow in the dim.

Along with more soldiers, closing in on all sides.

And his son's cries echoing in his ears.

He didn't have a name yet. Sean would have to think of one. A good one.

Later. When he had time.

But for now they just had to get out.

Sean whirled, dodged, juked.

And escaped the grasping hands of the soldiers.

Down the corridor.

Into an adjoining hall.

Out the door.

And into the laborator-

He jerked into a sitting position.

Heart pounding. Lungs gasping for air.

Head reeling.

Barely aware of his true surroundings.

Grasping desperately at his chest.

Where the phantom child should be.

And wasn't.

Because the child didn't exist.

Not yet.

Except in his mind.

And Angela's womb.

He shifted his weight, rose on shaky legs.

And shuffled, head in hands, around his small cell.

Clenching his jaw shut to keep from moaning. From crying out.

From opening his mouth and releasing the waiting scream.

That would never, ever, cease.

The nightmare was getting worse. More frequent. More vivid.

Almost every time he closed his eyes, it fell upon him.

Eating at his brain.

His sanity.

The collar, that metal ring, rubbed against his neck as he moved.

He didn't notice or care.

Not right then.

Because he was afraid, so very afraid.

Afraid that his torture, both mental and physical, would never end.

And if it did, Angela and the baby would be left alone to face the continued insanity of Bolivar Trask.

As he drew closer to the pinhole, Angela's voice floated out to him.

"Sean? You okay? Are you alright?"

He didn't answer her. He couldn't.

What could he say?

He swallowed thickly. Willed his voice to not tremble. And finally replied.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

Angela was smart. Angela was intuitive. Angela had nightmares of her own.

"You're lying."

 _Yeah_.

* * *

 **This entire chapter came from a daydream I had in the space of about six seconds the other day. Saw the entire thing very vividly in my mind.**

 **And I had to wait for daylight to write it up. 'Cause I ain't falling asleep and dreaming** _ **that**_ **with my infant and toddler sons sleeping near me. Uh-huh. I'd wake up the whole house at two in the morning for an impromptu pancake party.**

 **Which in and of itself wouldn't be too bad a thing, I guess.**

 **Special thanks to brigid1318 for reviewing! You deserve a medal or something. ;)**


	13. All-Out

I do not own X-Men anything.

Next to the last chapter right here, gentle readers!

What Makes a Man a Man

All-Out

* * *

He kept it on the downlow.

The downest of lows.

Carefully testing his sonic in his cell when things were quiet and still.

Back to the door.

Shock collar buzzing.

Peeling away at his nerves, burning them up steadily.

Learning to ignore the pain.

And try to hold out longer and longer against the muscle spasms that locked his jaw and threatened to completely overwhelm his bodily functions.

Lying to Angela.

"Sean? Do you hear that? Do you hear something?"

Angela, who didn't know the sound of his sonic.

"Huh? Oh, no. I don't hear anything."

To keep her safe. Protected.

And waiting, waiting, for the right time to fight.

Because there would be one.

There _had_ to be one.

Working on the lights lately.

Correction.

The wiring, the electricity, _behind_ the lights.

Waiting. Readying himself.

* * *

Until one day, the lights blew out.

And he grinned in the dark.

Despite the spots pulsating behind his eyes. The nausea rolling in his stomach.

"Sean?" came her voice, uncertain and questioning. "Sean? Are you okay?"

He clenched his hands tight.

"Yeah. Must be a short circuit."

Unclenched.

"Yeah."

She sounded doubtful.

Shortly, boots clumped along the hall toward them.

"Get ready," he muttered to her.

"What?"

There wasn't time to reply.

"Come with us."

He went.

* * *

Kneeling on the floor.

Side by side.

No closer than they had been in their cells.

But this time without a wall between them.

Sean was concentrating on her pale, strained face with all his non-psychic power.

 _Look up, look up._

He needed her to see him.

 _Look at me._

Did she really hate him so much that she couldn't even look at him?

Trask listening to the report from the guards, passed in front of them and as soon as his back was to her, her eyes flicked.

Almost up to his face before refocusing blankly again on the floor.

And he realized.

She didn't hate him. Not entirely.

She cared. A lot.

So much that she didn't want Trask to see and use it against them.

His remaining vision blurred and he had to blink away the moisture collecting there.

Still, he kept his sight trained on her.

That pale, trembling face.

She didn't look anything like he had thought she would.

Long, sandy, nondescript hair.

Dull blue eyes.

Skinny, almost painfully so.

Not even yet a swell to her belly to betray the baby growing there.

She was plain. She was simple.

She was beautiful.

Because of the pinhole.

And the words.

All the words they had exchanged.

To keep each other going, to keep each other sane.

She had reached out first. When she didn't have to.

And then, when he had hurt her through what Trask had done, she had still reached back out again.

Through the pinhole.

And her words.

Trask passed in front of her again.

And she glanced up, all the way up to Sean's eyes.

And, with only that split second to spare, Sean Cassidy winked.

Her entire face seemed to blink in surprise.

And then he smiled.

Quick and fleeting.

And then back down at the floor again.

Readying himself for the moment.

He would have to be quick and so would she.

They thought the shock collar had rendered him docile.

Once the chaos ensued, they would have only seconds to gain the edge.

If he faltered or miscalculated, jumped the gun, or hesitated, it would all be for nothing.

"The power failed in their cells, sir. We thought it best to keep them where we could see them."

Trask did not seem pleased. On the contrary, he seemed barely able to contain his agitation. As though having two mutants together at the same time worried him.

Sean bit back another grim smile.

Trask _should_ be worried.

 _Smart little bastard._

"You thought wrong," the little man replied curtly. "Take them back. Now."

Sean forced his body to stay relaxed as the guard approached from behind.

Took him by the arms.

And started to lift him.

Sean gathered his legs up under him.

And exploded into action.

He drove his weight upward with all his might.

Smashing his head into the relaxed jaw of the unassuming guard.

Catching his weapon useless between their bodies.

And then Sean lunged forward out of his weakened grasp.

Opening his mouth.

And leveling a controlled sonic at Trask.

Knocking the little man down again, much as he had the first day he'd been brought here. A million years ago.

Taking the electroshock from the collar with gritted teeth and a determined grunt at the pain.

"Go! Don't stop running!" he hissed in Angela's direction. "I'll follow you!"

A long table stood to his left, more guards approaching along the length of it.

The old Sean smirked, whistled another sonic, quick and precise.

All the beakers and vials in the laboratory shattered, glass and fluids exploding everywhere.

The soldiers, hard gut trained and steely-eyed, flinched nevertheless, bodies reflexively hitting self-preservation mode.

Another hit of the electricity in his nerves, twitching his head to the side and biting his tongue rather badly.

Out of the corner of his eye, seeing Angela near a hallway, kicking a guard right in the junk.

 _God, I love her._

Running past him, into the hall. Out of sight.

 _She's gonna make it. She's gonna get out_ , he reassured himself.

He had no reason to believe that.

But he did.

Because he had to.

She was going to escape.

Even if there was no way in the hell he would.

And then, with blood running from his ears and nose, swelling up in his tear ducts, Sean Cassidy went back to work.

On the ceiling.

* * *

 **Okay, maybe bad ex-machina here but I honestly tried.**

 **And I hope that it works.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, GladerTributeCamper, and K.J. Bollinger for your great reviews!**

 **Final chap tomorrow!**


	14. Epilogue

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I wish Sean could have lived.

What Makes a Man a Man

Epilogue

* * *

Hastily strung up tents flapped around the compound.

Sheltering the bodies, living and dead, pulled from the rubble of the downed main building.

One tent in particular though contained only one body.

" . . . Subject number 94673 . . . Sean Cassidy, aka, Banshee . . ."

Blood drawn. Skin samples. Hair samples.

" . . . 0320 hours . . . attempted escape attempt . . ."

Weight. Height.

". . . self-induced extended electroshock . . . cardiac disruption . . ."

Physical detriments duly noted and recorded.

" . . . severe organ damage . . . subsequent failure . . ."

Photographed.

All for the posterity of science.

Head of Research, Bolivar Trask dotted the i's and crossed the t's himself.

" . . . subject confirmed and declared deceased."

Not trusting others to complete even this so basic and routine a task.

Jotting a few final notes on his clipboard before tucking it under his arm.

Clicking off the recorder.

Placing it along with the pen into his left labcoat pocket.

And gazing silently at the corpse.

After a long moment, he blew out an exhalation of frustrated breath.

And placed a hand on the still body of the dead mutant.

Before lowering his head in disappointment.

"Sir?"

He turned and looked up at the military officer approaching him at a crisp pace.

"Yes?"

The man paused then spoke flatly.

"The girl, sir. The men are still looking but . . ."

He paused at the fire suddenly burning in the scientist's blue eyes.

Then squared his shoulders resolutely.

"She's breached the perimeter, sir. She has escaped."

Bolivar Trask's hard expression bore into the man.

"That is unacceptable, lieutenant. She _must_ be found. Expand the search area."

His tone, as usual, was mild. But his command brooked no argument.

The soldier's face remained a stone blank.

"Yes sir," he replied.

Then turned on his heel and marched away.

Bolivar Trask turned back to the still form on the table before him.

The burned-out shock collar had been removed.

A solid black band discolored the skin underneath.

Deep purple flesh hung under the deflated eye sockets.

 _A waste_ , he thought glumly. _Such a waste of a good specimen._

And the girl. Such effort and time expended. Such potential.

Now gone.

"We'll find her," Trask nodded, reassuring himself quietly. "We'll bring her back."

They didn't.

* * *

The wailing of a newborn cut through heavy, thick air in the delivery room.

The cry was petulant, undulating.

And strong.

"It's a girl!" the nurse exclaimed. "A beautiful baby girl!"

As another nurse took charge of caring for the mother, the first cut and clamped the cord.

Wiped the child down quick with a damp cloth. Suctioned her mouth.

Cleaned her eyes, checked her vital signs.

Measured and weighed her.

And wrapped her in a warm blanket.

The child was still crying.

"Somebody wants her mama, doesn't she, yes, she does," the maternity attendant cooed.

And laid her gently down in her young mother's embrace.

"Oh my, look at all that red hair," she admired softly. "I don't think I've ever seen a baby with so much hair before."

Then smiled kindly as the girl burst into tears.

"Oh sweetheart, it's okay. Look, she's just fine. So strong and healthy."

Both mother and daughter gradually quieted though the elder continued to weep and cling to the younger.

"What are you going to name her?"

* * *

 **The End.**

 **Well, I tried to pay tribute to the great, underutilized character of Sean Cassidy and even to the fascinating character villian of Bolivar Trask. They just have so much to offer, I think.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, GladerTributeCamper, and K.J. Bollinger for so loyally and stalwartly reviewing thru this whole thing. I hope you enjoyed it! If that's the sentiment. ;)**

 **Well, what do you think?**


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